


The Catch

by FallacyFallacy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Marriage, No Homophobia AU, Not Canon Compliant, Politics, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/pseuds/FallacyFallacy
Summary: Margaery makes a wonderful proposal.Sansa doesn't understand.





	The Catch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



> I've played rather fast and loose with canon here - I hope it's not too confusing what's been changed! And I also hope I've been able to avoid your character DNW enough - if not, I will rewrite it.
> 
> (Also, your letter is _amazing._ I owed you for all the great inspiration alone! :P)

They arrange to meet in a small room on the North side of the castle; when she enters, it strikes her as familiar, but she can’t conjure up any specific memory. She had always focused more on the people than the tapestries of King’s Landing.

Margaery is already there, sitting with patient elegance; she smiles as soon as Sansa enters, rising to envelop her in a hug.

“My dear Sansa…!” she gushes, squeezing a little too tightly.

Sansa leans into it, as planned.

“It is so good to see you again, Lady Margaery,” she murmurs, hoping to demure with just enough childish theatricality.

Margaery giggles and pulls back, but before Sansa can wonder whether she ought to giggle as well, Margaery is mock-frowning at her with that familiar playful raised eyebrow.

“You’ve kept me waiting for so long! I was about to think you had tired of me...”

“No, of course not!” Sansa rushes to insist. “It is simply...” She glances behind her; truly, seeing Jon and Arya here with her comforts her to no end. “Until I could be entirely assured of my brother’s well-being, I truly could think of nought else...”

Margaery’s expression immediately shifts sympathetic. “Why, of course! We were all so concerned for him as well. Your family must be most important to you.”

Sansa nods. Affecting a solemnity might also aid her in this negotiation; it isn’t difficult.

“Well, now that we’ve gotten all that settled, shall we begin what we came here for?”

“Y-yes of course, Lady Olenna,” Sansa says, bowing immediately. She curses mentally – she had promised herself not to get swept up in Margaery’s pace.

Sansa clears her throat. “Firstly, I would like to make it very clear that though the North has declined to join the Seven Kingdoms-”

“We really need to change that name,” Olenna murmurs, rolling her eyes. “It was appropriate when King Rhaegar took the throne, certainly, but now it’s just silly.”

She hears Arya snicker in the background.

“...we are still just as keen as ever to co-operate with the Kingdom, and with all Houses within it. Our leaving was simply an acknowledgement of our unique traditions and history.”

Margaery is nodding; Sansa relaxes a little.

“In particular, we consider it extremely important to recognise the great effort the Tyrell house have made in support of House Stark, in our conflicts against both the Lannisters and the army of the Dead.”

“Which still sounds rather far-fetched to me, but what would an old woman like me know?”

“I saw them myself, grandmother,” Margaery says quietly. “And… thank you. Once we saw what Cersei Lannister was capable of… well. I do not need to tell you how I felt in that moment.”

Even now, the memory of her father’s death sends a shiver down Sansa’s spine.

“Yes, she was certainly a vicious cunt,” Olenna murmurs. “We all knew that, but to think that she was that violent, or that stupid...”

“I don’t really want to talk about that, thank you grandmother,” Margaery says with a clearly forced smile. Sansa glances at her leg – she’d heard that Lady Margaery had been close enough to the blast to be injured permanently, but if so she is disguising it well.

“So: to marriage,” Lady Olenna prompts her.

“Yes,” Sansa says, gathering herself. She offers a practised open smile. “Lady Olenna, as the soon to be Queen of Winterfell, I would like to extend a formal offer of marriage between your granddaughter and my brother, the legitimised Jon Stark.”

In just a second, she can tell this isn’t going to go the way she expected.

“Hmmm…!” Margaery looks over at Jon, as though she is appraising him. Sansa feels him shift, unsure.

“I would be honoured to become husband to the Lady of Highgarden,” he says, a little stiffly.

Margaery looks back at Sansa, and her mischievous expression has her in pins and needles. “That would be rather nice, wouldn’t it? We would be sisters after all!”

Sansa needs to sell this. She grins. “I can think of nothing better!”

“Really?” Margaery almost seems to wink. “Can’t you?”

Jon is glancing at her, but Sansa refuses to take her eyes from Margaery.

“I...” he coughs. “If the Lady Margaery finds me unsatisfactory...”

Margaery waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s not that at all. You are a fine man who has served your family very well. But, well. Doesn’t it seem a little bit of a shame? When you and I are so close, Lady Sansa…!”

Oh. _Oh._

“You...y-you are suggesting a marriage between you and I?”

“Why, yes!” It’s Olenna who takes over now, and Sansa’s gazes shifts immediately. “I know it’s not the _most_ common way of doing things, but we have a grand tradition of them in Highgarden. And I know that even up North you’ve had a fair few, too.”

“That is true...” Usually, in cases where there are no appropriate different-gender matches. Is Highgarden different?

Margaery giggles, barely able to contain her glee. “You’re stunned! You can’t believe it’s possible, no? But wouldn’t it be so perfect? We are already so close, and it’d be perfect for our houses as well!”

“But...” Sansa swallows. “Whoever I marry would...take up residence with me, in Winterfell,” she says, as politely as she can.

“I would, yes.” Margaery’s smile turns a little wistful. “I dearly adore Highgarden, that is true. But I have no desire to become its heir. That was my brother. It feels… wrong. My cousin is more than willing to take up that position, and would do a very fine job of it.”

This doesn’t make sense.

“My poor dear,” Olenna croons, “you look awfully confused. Is there something you don’t understand?”

“N-no, my Lady, I...” Sansa shakes her head. “It is true that in the North these marriages are less common, so I had not considered this possibility. I...I am simply lost in thought wondering how my kinsmen will respond.”

“I don’t think that shall be a problem. As you said a moment ago, we Tyrells have given you Starks quite a bit of aid. And my granddaughter sits in high esteem with the people of the Reach and Crownland – her charity work has spread far, after all.”

“That’s enough, grandmother...”

“Be that as it may, I am reluctant to commit to such a new plan without consulting more widely,” Sansa says, wincing; either way, she will seem either weak or lacking in insight, but she can’t see any other way out of this.

Margaery agrees immediately. “Of course – I have only the highest respect for how the Starks honour their kin so highly. Please, go speak with them and return to us once you are sure.”

Sansa nods, standing awkwardly. Arya and Jon come to her sides immediately.

“Then I will extend an invitation to the Lady Olenna soon,” she says with a bow.

The first thing she does once they leave earshot is glare at Arya. “You were quiet.”

“Any time I wanted to say something the old lady piped up instead,” she retorts. “I like her.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Of course you do. But what do you think about Lady Margaery?”

Arya’s grin fades and she gazes into the distance pensively. “I’m not sure, honestly. She’s very… _smiley_. Are you really good friends?”

“We spent a great deal of time together in King’s Landing. And… I certainly thought of her as a friend.”

“She was supposed to marry Joffrey after you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. ...and from what I saw, she was actually rather good at dealing with him.”

Arya’s eyes widen, clearly impressed. Sansa swallows, a bitter taste in her throat; if only she had been stronger, then.

“Well, I’m opposed to it.”

Sansa looks Jon’s way, startled.

Arya snorts. “Really had your heart set on her, huh?”

“It’s not that.” Jon sighs, and his eyes look sad. “Sansa… you don’t need to do this. If anyone’s going to be getting into a marriage like this, it should be me.”

“...if that’s what you’d prefer-”

“I already took the Black. I made an oath to father no children. But...isn’t that what you always used to dream of, when you were younger? Having a husband, and becoming a mother?”

Sansa snorts. “Yes, when I was a silly little girl.”

“It’s not silly. It was my fondest wish ever since I was a boy to be part of the Stark family proper,” he says bluntly, and Sansa winces. “I understand that you want to do what’s best for the North. But you’ve already done so much. They all love you. Please, don’t throw away any chance at your own happiness, too.”

Sansa gazes at him. He’s older than when they first parted, but somehow, he feels younger to her.

“Happiness,” she repeats. “I’ve never seen it come without a catch.”

“...I may… agree with Jon a little.” When Sansa glares, Arya rushes to explain. “It’s just, well – I never cared for all those sorts of things, you know? And even marriages like these can work out very well – weren’t there two Lords or something who did it and have all those songs written about them? But… you only get one chance at marriage.”

Sansa snorts in amusement.

“Well, _you_ are an outlier,” Arya says with a pout. “Either way, the thought of seeing you giving up on all of that romance _entirely_ does make me...a little sad.”

Jon’s nodding as well, and that only angers Sansa further.

“So I ought to remain an innocent child for your own amusement?” She sees Arya protest but she will have none of it. “I am not the sister you once knew, and I refuse to close my eyes to the truth any longer. I will protect myself however I can, regardless of who might be ‘saddened’ by it.”

She whirls and leaves, feet stamping as she goes.

*

“Lady Sansa, over here!”

She almost pauses when she sees the terrace, vines curling around thick columns and blue hills misty in the distance. The Castle might stir up only darkness and dread, but here she has to fight the urge to melt in delight.

It wasn’t real, she reminds herself. Margaery only cared to gain information and influence her against the Lannisters.

Emboldened again, she pretends to just notice Margaery and adopts a wide grin.

“Lady Margaery, Lady Olenna.” Approaching them, she bows.

“Oh, there’s no need for such formality with us!” Once again, Margaery stands to hug her tightly, this time also stroking at Sansa’s hair. It leaves her a little self-conscious – she has been wearing it in the Northern style for so long that she hadn’t even thought about it that morning, but doing it up in a style of the Reach would have better signalled her friendship with Margaery, and perhaps encouraged her to think the she really is still so eager for her approval.

“Thank you,” she says instead. “It has been such a sweetness to my heart knowing that I still have a friend in you here.”

Margaery ducks her head coyly, as though she’s being legitimately charmed. “I will always have the utmost of esteem for you, Sansa.”

As they sit, Lady Olenna gestures at the table.

“Is the spread satisfactory? If not, the boy can retrieve anything you wish for.”

It truly is a feast – dried fruits, honey buns, and sweet custard among the spread. But it is the lemon cakes Sansa’s eyes immediately drift towards, setting her mouth watering before she’s even consciously aware. She wants to choose something else, embarrassed at her childishness, but it is only to her advantage if the Tyrells underestimate her.

She gasps. “You remembered!” Raising her eyebrow in a mimickry of Margaery the day earlier, she reaches for one as the lady herself grins.

“Why of course! I asked for them specifically on your behalf!”

Sansa takes a bite immediately, a little worried that she will drop her guard too much. But the cake in her mouth is a little sweeter than she remembered, and once she’s swallowed she isn’t really eager to have more.

“Does it still meet Sansa Stark’s high standards?” Margaery asks grandly.

Sansa smiles. “Every bit and more!”

“So,” Olenna says as she takes another bite, “have you yet spoken to your people about our proposal?”

Margaery frowns. “Grandmother, give her time! This is a very important decision...”

“And a very good offer – frankly, I don’t see a reason for the delay.”

Sansa chews thoroughly to give herself time to formulate a response.

“I...am still in talks,” she says. “I must admit, these unions truly are less common in the North. I would be honoured to hear more of Highgarden’s traditions around them.”

Margaery brightens. “Certainly! I am hardly a scholar myself, but I have always found them rather intriguing. In fact, sometimes I suspect that these marriages more often lead to true affection than different-sex ones!”

“It’s the children,” Olenna remarks around a sip of wine. “The moment your belly swells, romance dies. That’s a fact.”

“But don’t you think there’s something exciting about it?” Margaery’s eyes truly seem to be sparkling. “Well, of course marrying you would be especially wonderful. You have always been so important to me.”

Sansa’s cheeks heat; she stumbles a little, flustered.

“But… Lady Margaery, this is the first you have suggested it...” She realises as she speaks that this isn’t the tack she should be taking, but Margaery’s eyes are already widening.

“You’re thinking about the proposal I made that you marry my brother?”

Sansa bites her lip. It’s obvious why she said that, then – the Tyrells would win an ally in her and the Starks, while she would be free to become the Queen.

Which only raises the very real question of why she isn’t trying to do that _now._

Margaery doesn’t speak for a few moments. Sansa’s nerves grow, until she cannot bear them any longer.

“No, it is no matter. That was in the past.” She laughs a little. “You are making this offer now, and I am duly considering it. Obviously, the prospect of a marriage between us would be marvellous – I don’t at all question that...”

But before Margaery can reply, Olenna snorts.

“Why, you are an interesting little thing, aren’t you?” she says.

Sansa goes cold.

“Grandmother….?” Margaery’s brow furrows, staring at Olenna.

“Well, it was always obvious you wouldn’t be the little thing you once were anymore.” Olenna takes another sip; Sansa watches very closely. “You’re trying to be shrewd, aren’t you, girl? But it isn’t working so well.”

Sansa is speechless, all thoughts flying from her in this moment. She feels dizzy.

“Grandmother, what on earth are you talking about?!” Margaery says sharply.

“I’m telling you what you’re too blinded by emotion to see.” Olenna glances at Margaery just for a moment. “She isn’t committed – merely trying to feign it.”

Sansa has never seen Margaery look so angry. “You are impossibly cynical. Sansa, please, ignore her.”

“I...” Sansa wipes at her mouth hurriedly. “Perhaps I should retire for the day...”

“No, Lady Sansa, please, my grandmother is simply overprotective, and speaks out of turn…!”

Sansa stands; Olenna does not look surprised.

“You think on it, girl,” she says. And though the words are bland and vague, they ring in Sansa’s head for hours afterwards.

*

In her room, she paces.

She’s playing this wrong – that much is obvious. But no matter how many time she turns it over in her head, she cannot understand it. What could Margaery possibly have to gain from renouncing her position as heir and moving to Winterfell? The only avenue she can see is that of her relation to her brother the King, but then would it not be better to marry someone in King’s Landing, where she could be close to him and the populace who so adore her?

Sansa loves the North – adores even its frosty winters and gruff-tempered bannermen – but she’s not so proud of her land as to deny it has little to offer a noble lady of Highgarden. Margaery is far more suited to the sprawling gardens and sun-soaked cliffsides of the south.

When she realises what she is daydreaming, Sansa shakes her head roughly, stopping in her tracks. The rosy image she’d had of Margary back then in King’s Landing had not been real. It was simply… well. 

She sighs. She had been _infatuated_ , she can avoid it no longer. Her head had swum with her, all pink shoulders and golden brown hair, giggling at her so playfully and taking her hand with such delicate enthusiasm. She had been as lost with her as she had been with Loras, dreaming of a world of perfumes and sweet poetry.

She knows better now. She is not a little bird anymore. She will _prove_ that.

She repeats the exchange in her head once more, turning around and starting to pace again. If Margaery is so devoted to this plan, why would her grandmother try to disrupt it so? Could it be an attempt to protect her? Does she believe that Margaery is sacrificing herself for her family’s sake? Looked at objectively, moving to Winterfell is certainly a sacrifice, but for what?

And what on Earth did she mean by ‘what you’re too blinded by emotion to see’? It’s here that something in Sansa bubbles, rippling through her and rising worryingly. Lady Margaery could hardly be called a stoic, but Sansa has always known her to be loyal to her family first and foremost. But how would her love for her family blind her? Perhaps she misheard her, in her desperation to… to what?

_“Please, don’t throw away any chance at your own happiness, too.”_

She clutches at her stomach, alarmed at a feeling of pain. She would almost welcome an illness for the time it would grant her – and perhaps then she could explain away her confusion on a nauseous dizziness. But she aches only when she thinks of Margaery.

She remains in her room for the afternoon. It’s wide and comfortable but, while more luxurious than that of the Lord’s in Winterfell, feels bare. There is little to distract her from her thoughts, and she does not know who to turn to for advice. She wishes keenly that her mother were still here, as childish as it makes her feel – if there is anyone she is sure would know the right thing to do, it is her.

As evening comes, a plot occurs to her. It is simple and desperate, but she is clearly unable to make a decision based on her current information – if she could only get some little better insight into Margaery’s thinking, perhaps it will all suddenly make sense.

And so she prepares herself, tightening her focus. She will go to Margaery’s room at night, distraught; for two fiances of the same sex to meet so surreptitiously is taboo, but not nearly as much so as if a babe were possible. She will confess to Margaery how scared she is, how she cannot go through with this marriage, how terribly sorry she is. She runs through a few possibilities – she cannot think of any political obstruction, so she settles on an imaginary true love she still longs for. If pressed, she will refuse to say who.

Then, she knows, she will see: will Margaery smile with sad sympathy and bid her to follow her heart? Or will she, as she _must_ , try to cajole her, pushing forward with a marriage Sansa clearly does not want?

She steels herself, watching the sky carefully until it finally seems dark enough. Her heart thunders, far more than it ought. When the corridor is bare, she moves, stepping as quickly as possible to where the Tyrells are lodging. She knows her room, from when Margaery had walked her back to her own and pointed it out on the way, inviting Sansa to come by if she ever wished to. Indeed, Sansa does wish.

She knocks, ducking her head. It’s harder than she had expected to take the right expression; when she was here last, she had done everything possible to avoid showing such emotion.

She still doesn’t know what to expect - which of course is her entire reason for being here, as much as it unnerves her. As she waits, the ache in her stomach flares up again.

“Is that you Rose-” 

When Margaery opens the door, her eyes widen immediately. She’s dressed in the barest minimum for decency – clearly, she had taken off her outer layers already for the night. More startlingly, her hair has been released from its bindings, and while the styles of Highgarden, like those of the North, tend to the less elaborate, it’s still a shock to see her in a state of such disarray.

She remembers after a moment that she is supposed to look distressed and scrunches up her nose, but seeing her old friend looking so comfortable, as though she has arrived for a night of laughter and gossip, takes the fight out of her entirely.

She sighs, suddenly tired.

“Lady Sansa? Is there something wrong?”

Sansa swallows thickly. Her plan gone, there is only one thing she can do, even as she hates herself for doing it.

“I...I must ask you something,” she blurts out. “I could wait no longer, wondering...”

Margaery guides her in immediately; she seems to stumble for a moment as she takes a chair out for Sansa, but she barely sees it. It appears that her lady in waiting has left as well, so it is only the two of them.

The moment Margaery is seated, Sansa cannot contain herself any longer. “Why do you want to marry me?”

Again, Margaery looks surprised. “Lady Sansa?”

“I’ve thought on it over and over – I cannot _stop_ thinking about it. I have examined the matter from every angle. But I simply cannot conceive of why you would pursue this. It would take you away from where you are loved to live among those who are distrustful of the south, it would leave you far from courtly politics and the King, it would strand you in a cold and wintry land that does not at all seem suited to you...”

Margaery’s jaw has dropped. Sansa continues, cheeks red. “And I know I ought not to be saying all this – to simply ask another of their plans is the height of naivete! ...but perhaps _that_ is your reasoning, after all. I am so… young and gullible and stupid, and a girl like that who thinks she knows what she’s doing is far easier to manipulate than one who knows she doesn’t.”

She’s breathing heavily. Margaery blinks several times.

And then… her brow furrows a little. The corners of her lips pinch. Her shoulders stiffen, and there is something false about the way she calmly smooths over her dress.

Is she...hurt?

“...Sansa. I underestimated you.”

Sansa hardens, distrustful of the compliment. But Margaery is looking away, out at the star-dotted sky.

For several long moments, neither speaks. Sansa’s breathing slows, but her heart beat doesn’t. There’s a cool light to Margaery now, dyeing her white clothing pale blue, and she looks the picture of a pure young woman.

“...I can explain myself, I think. But I may be speaking for a while. Do you still wish to hear?”

Sansa nods, and Margaery breathes in deeply.

“Seeing the way Joffrey treated you… it affected me very deeply.”

There is a bitter taste in Sansa’s throat; even now, she cannot escape him.

“As a girl, I longed for the day that I met who I would someday marry. But I was also afraid. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why.”

Sansa shifts, now uncertain.

“But I knew in my heart: if it was for my family, I would weather any misfortune. If it could improve their lot even a little, I promised myself I would endure it, and come out the stronger for it. But...”

She rubs at her thigh, seemingly without realising. And Sansa realises what she had been too distracted to fully understand a moment ago – when retrieving the chair, Margaery had not stumbled, she had limped. She truly was injured in the blast.

“...there comes a time when there is nothing noble about it,” she says, and her voice is flat in a way Sansa has never heard it. “It is simply _suffering_. If all of us are willing to undergo such torture, who is it for?” She shakes her head. “No. I have been through enough. I will not be broken again.”

Sansa’s eyes prick.

“You already know that when we were last here, I spoke to you because it was useful to us,” she says.

“Yes.”

“But...Sansa. The time we spent together was ever so much fun.” Finally Margaery turns back to her, smiling sadly. “I have always tried to find positions of mutual benefit – you could win allegiance through fear, yes, but you could achieve just the same with love. I spoke to you for information and influence, yes. But also because I liked you. Being with you – talking, eating, enjoying beautiful things together… when I look back, I think I was truly never happier.”

Sansa can’t seem to swallow. Her throat is thick, and it is no longer possible to hide her tears.

“You have said it yourself – I have no possible ulterior reason, here. There are far more politically advantageous matches for myself. I choose you because I like you, Sansa, and I am so tired of being with people I dislike.”

Margaery grows quiet, but it’s hard for Sansa to speak.

“But… how do I know?” she finally mumbles, voice thick. “You could still be lying to me. How can I be sure there is nothing I have missed?”

Margaery shrugs.

“I suppose you can’t,” she says softly.

Sansa bites her lip. The words ring in her head again, as loud as a clanging bell – _Please, don’t throw away any chance at your own happiness._ Sansa cannot cease her worrying until she finds the _catch._

But her resolve weakened, she can no longer keep herself from imagining it.

She can’t deny her agreement – the time she had spent with Margaery had been some of the most pleasant of her life, even despite the many terrible things surrounding it. To be able to repeat that, even if only on occasion, would be truly a dream.

The future would not all be tea parties and gardens - Sansa was to be Queen of the North. And in truth, she has never met a woman as intelligent, as cunning, or as compassionate as Margaery – someone whose advice she would be sorely grateful for. She is experienced in managing a household, and a natural at diplomacy, more observant and subtle than Sansa knew she was yet capable of.

They would bear no children together. And yes, a small part of Sansa hurt to think of that – she had always believed she would be a wonderful mother. But there would be no lack of children in the North, and as Queen they would be her responsibility as much as any other subject.

And… Sansa blushes. She had been yet too innocent to think on it much when she and Margaery first became friends, but the thought of lying beside Margaery in her bed was very nice indeed.

She can imagine it so _easily._ Waking beside her, face almost hidden behind brown curls and warm furs. Strolling through Winterfell together, greeting their countrymen and hearing of their day. Expressing her worries and hearing honest advice and comfort alike. Eating with Margaery, conversing with Margaery, kissing Margaery...

It all sounds so _wonderful._

She wonders how she would look, framed by the snowy-white branches of the Weirwood tree, as they spoke their vows.

“Please – take the time you need,” Margaery says softly, and Sansa hates and loves how melodic her voice is even now. “If you still do not trust me, I will not persist further.”

Sansa, finally, unstiffens.

“...I don’t think I trust anyone, really,” she says, with a hint of a dry laugh. “Other than family.”

Margaery giggles. “Yes, I understand you completely. I did always want to make you my sister, after all.”

“...and then you thought of something better,” Sansa says.

Perhaps it is still childish foolishness. To want is a weakness – desires are exploitable. True love may exist, but Sansa had long given up any hope of ever knowing it herself.

But feeling Margaery’s fingers interlock with hers, and seeing Margaery’s delighted smile, Sansa can’t help but feel _happy._

She isn’t ready to say it yet. There are plans to be made, and her siblings ought to know first.

But it was at that moment that Lady Sansa of House Stark truly gave her heart in marriage to Lady Margaery.


End file.
